


The Advent of May

by desree_rd



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Ice Cream, M/M, Peter/Sylar Promptfest, Post Season/Series 04, Protectiveness, mentions of off-screen non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desree_rd/pseuds/desree_rd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpt: Stephen (...). Peter didn't like the guy any better the more he heard of him, but he didn't do anything to discourage Sylar from meeting with him again either. On the contrary, only a few days later he found himself pushing Sylar into accepting a dinner invitation (he wasn't entirely sure which one of them refused to call it a date).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Crack

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Peter/Sylar Promptfest, first posted Mar. 18th 2010.
> 
> It was intended as two seperate stories at first, but the first prompt worked well as kind of a set up for the second, so here we go. Still, they can be read seperately, if you prefer your crack without the angst. Title taken from the lyrics to Nightwish's Ghost Love Score, because I suck at coming up with one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 1: Ice-Cream. Do with that what you will but I'd like it very much if what you did turned out to be NC-17. (Only not so much with the NC-17)

The first time a guy showed interest in Sylar –

Or, maybe he should rephrase that into: the first time Peter witnessed a guy show interest in Sylar, the two of them were sitting in an ice-cream parlor, quietly going over some of Bennett's emergency strategies for the inevitable fall-out Claire's act of teenaged naivety had set into motion, while simultaneously enjoying one of the last beautiful days of autumn.

Peter couldn't really blame the guy for staring. Peter was doing it, too, and they weren't the only ones. In all the years they had spent together (literal or figurative, Peter still wasn't sure which adjective applied to their situation), he'd never watched Sylar eat ice-cream before. Whether that was a good thing or not, he wasn't sure.

Eying his companion's blissed out expression, disbelief and mirth bubbling in his chest, Peter finally wasn't able to help himself.

“Do you want to get a room, or something?”

Snapping his eyes open, Sylar caught the stares directed his way and carefully lowered the spoon from his mouth. Peter couldn't remember an occasion where the other man had shown honest to God embarrassment. Neither did he see him blush too often. Now he did, as Sylar petulantly defended himself, “So I enjoy ice-cream. Everybody here does!”

“Not like you, they don't.”

In hindsight Peter actually regretted saying anything, since after that Sylar took great care to mimic the way others ate their ice-cream for the remaining spoonfuls of his. Even after all these years trapped together, such glimpses of Sylar with all his walls down (pun very much intended) were rare between them, and despite all misgivings Peter had begun to treasure these moments.

They had just about navigated through the maze of chairs and tables on the way out when the guy from before crashed into Sylar, almost bringing them both down to the floor. In the last second, Peter's hand caught hold of his companion's black pea coat, fingers closing around the material and the arm underneath to keep him upright.

Only his wasn't the only hand doing so.

The instigator of this little scene, a man dwarfing even Sylar by about three inches, smiled sheepishly and immediately apologized. Automatically Peter noted the complete lack of abilities in the man, even as he felt Sylar's buzz under his fingertips, ready for him to choose from.

“Do you come here often?” the stranger asked, a come-on that couldn't have been more blatant.

Peter narrowed his eyes at the giant. Sylar, in a bout of naivety that wasn't as uncommon for him as Peter would once have thought, took the question at face value and looked back at the assortment of ice-cream flavors on offer, while Peter gave the tall stranger a once over.

Short, dark blond hair, a face that strangely reminded him of Paul Walker if held at a certain angle, five o'clock shadow, casual but stylish clothes. Built. Sylar, in contrast, looked even skinnier than usual. All in all not bad, if you went for a certain type.

“I intend to,” answered Sylar, oblivious.

...Peter didn't like him.

Giving Sylar's arm a meaningful tug, coincidentally dislodging the stranger's hand who still hadn't let go of his earlier victim, Peter steered them towards the exit, dragging Sylar along without further ado when the other man didn't move fast enough.

“He hit on you,” Peter clarified once they were out in the buzzing streets, and he noticed the frown Sylar was giving him.

“No.” Reflexively, Sylar looked back over his shoulder, but the parlor was no longer visible through the crowd of people on the walkway. “You think?”

Peter scoffed. “What, you've never been hit on by a guy before?”

“Not that I remember.” Not that he noticed, more like. Truth be told, this side of his former nemesis was sort of endearing. “I don't think anyone besides Elle has ever really hit on me, actually.”

“Well, as I remember, Elle wasn't exactly subtle. You were bound to notice.”

“Are you calling me dense?”

“If the shoe fits.”

Silence. Peter didn't even have to turn around to feel the glare leveled his way. A grin broke out on his face.

“Well,” Sylar finally broke the silence, sounding thoughtful once more. “There was that time I fooled Mohinder into taking me along for a road trip. I thought he was just being polite.”

Peter choked on that for a second in an effort to not laugh out loud. It would certainly explain a few things...

 


	2. The H/C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: I'd like a non-con fic with Sylar as the victim, with Peter finding out because they're living together, and either Peter realizing Sylar was forced or not and his reaction. (so anger, jealousy, confusion etc) I'd like this to be eventually hurt/comfort. Post brave new world and R/Nc17 -- (yeah, again, not so much with the NC-17. Sorry.)

The guy's name, as it turned out – around the same time Peter had finally decided to count the years trapped in Sylar's mind as literal (after all, he had lived every goddamn unreal minute of it) –, was Stephen McKenzie. Peter knew because Sylar had told him. Sylar knew, because he had met the man again when catering to his not-so-secret-anymore addiction to ice-cream, and _Stephen_ had drawn him into a conversation.

Peter didn't like the guy any better the more he heard of him, but he didn't do anything to discourage Sylar from meeting with him again either. On the contrary, only a few days later he found himself pushing Sylar into accepting a dinner invitation (he wasn't entirely sure which one of them refused to call it a date).

He might not like Stephen, but Peter was well aware that the isolation – emotional this time, rather than physical – Sylar was living in right now wasn't healthy. And while Peter didn't go out much either, he at least had people to talk to, to fall back on, even if some of them weren't too happy with him at the moment; his mother, Emma, Claire, even Noah, Matt and Mohinder. Sylar honestly only had Peter.

The thing was, Peter had always been a demonstrative sort of guy. Maybe it was because of his Italian roots, but he had always been comfortable expressing his emotions in a physical way, be it hugging and kissing his brother in a show of affection – or punching Sylar in the face for taunting him. Either way, after some time Sylar and he had gotten used to touching each other, not really avoiding physical contact even when they weren't arguing, and their arguments, well... those tended to get physical regardless.

At any rate, it wasn't until for the first time in years Sylar flinched from his touch did Peter begin to suspect that something was wrong.

There was also the way Sylar suddenly dodged all discussion about Stephen whenever Peter asked, and a discomforting knot was starting to built in his stomach. And no matter how many times Peter tried to tell himself he was overreacting, that Sylar of all people knew how to take care of himself – after all, he was perhaps the single most powerful special of all – he couldn't shake this sickening feeling. People had called him empathetic long before his gift had started to manifest, and his intuition had rarely been wrong.

Still, Peter didn't know how to broach the subject with a man who, until very recently, had been the bane of his existence. The unlikely friendship they had formed was still tentative on both sides. Peter just didn't know what to do, and he didn't like this feeling of indecisiveness at all.

In the end, he didn't have to do anything. Sylar came to him on his own one evening, barging through the door of the apartment they now shared, starting to pace up and down behind the couch Peter was sitting on, watching the sports channel. Shifting to be able to look over the back, Peter was debating whether or not to say anything when the other man brusquely demanded: “How do you break up with someone?”

“I... guess that depends on if you want to be gentle about it,” Peter replied, choosing his words carefully, “but usually just telling them so will do.”

“And if it doesn't?”

Watching the odd agitation and nervous energy that had led to Sylar's pacing displayed by his usually so collected roommate sent a shiver of foreboding down Peter's spine. “This is about Stephen, isn't it?”

Sylar shot him a distracted glare, but didn't disagree.

“Sylar!”

When his friend still ignored him, Peter caught hold of the sleeve of his hoodie, wondering absently where that favorite coat had gone, the next time Sylar passed him by, and said, gentle but firm, “Gabriel.”

The flinch, when it came, hurt in ways it really shouldn't have, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. Inwardly Peter cursed the renewed evidence to his suspicions.

Wrenching his arm free, Sylar looked at him with a complicated expression twisting his features, and, Peter was sure, for a second Sylar didn't see him at all. Then, hands unconsciously clenching into fists, he answered, “He doesn't take 'no' for an answer.”

“To what?”

“Anything.”

Seemingly unable to face Peter anymore, Sylar restarted his nervous pacing. Peter watched him for a few moments, guts churning.

“Did he...” he began hesitantly, needing to know but at the same time afraid of posing the question, “Did he hurt you?”

“Define hurt.”

“Did he rape you?”

Sylar's steps faltered only to turn even more frantic.

“I wouldn't exactly call it rape.”

“Then what would you call it?” Peter demanded harshly.

Again, Sylar didn't answer, but he stopped dead in his tracks. After another few moments, he sank to the floor behind the couch, leaning against its back, and drew his knees up to his chest in a by now familiar show of vulnerability that never failed to make Peter think of a lost child despite knowing better.

Craning his neck to look down at the dark mop of hair, he asked, “Why didn't you do anything?”

The nurse in him cringed at the question, at the accusing tone in his voice, but really, Sylar was anything but helpless. Why _didn't_ he do anything?

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don't know, use your powers? Jesus Christ, Sylar, you – ”

“I don't... I'm supposed to not hurt anyone anymore, remember? I – I'm...”

Confused. Sylar was confused, his own perception of right and wrong so warped by now that he depended on others to tell him what was morally acceptable and what wasn't. In particular, the triumvirate of his mother, Noah Bennett and Matt Parkman had only agreed to allow Sylar to roam free on very particular conditions: he would stay with Peter so that someone would be able to keep an eye on him at all times, he wasn't to use his abilities outside of the apartment unless sanctioned otherwise, and he wasn't – under no circumstances – to hurt anyone.

Peter should have seen this happening before now.

Running shaky fingers through his hair, he stood up and rounded the sofa to sit down beside his friend, shoulders brushing. Watching Sylar's profile, Peter waited patiently until the other man fidgeted, slanting him a look out of the corner of his eyes.

“You're allowed to defend yourself, Gabriel,” he then told him seriously.

The smirk he got in reply was anything but nice. Not mocking as it would have been in times past but self-deprecating, dark and twisted. “And who would have believed me?”

“Me.”

He surprised himself with how easy the answer had come. Once upon a time... But after all that had happened between them, this was nothing less than the truth. The anger at his brother's killer still flickered up from time to time, kept alive by Peter's desperate need to have some part of Nathan with him, and maybe it wasn't healthy, but it also didn't blind him to all the ways Sylar had changed since then.

The other man went back to avoiding his gaze, turning his head to face away from Peter. Showing emotions – and Peter didn't mean the temper tantrums Sylar was prone to now and again but all those inconvenient frustrating emotions that went with being human – wasn't something Sylar was really comfortable with, Peter had noticed. A second later Sylar brought his arms up, hiding his face even more effectively, threaded fingers through his hair and pulled. Peter watched helplessly as knuckles went white.

“I wanted to rip his heart out, Peter,” Sylar confessed, voice so painfully controlled that all he was able to bring forth was a whisper. “I was this close to losing control. Maybe your mother was right, maybe I should have let them take me back to a cell at the new company. Maybe it's just a matter of time until I --”

And maybe that was the flip-side to Peter's gift, this not-so-metaphorical sympathy for the devil, but he wouldn't lose the man who was slowly emerging from behind Sylar's so carefully constructed walls. Not to this.

“Hey,” Peter interrupted the rambling, moving to grip a slender neck, vertebrae knobby beneath his palm, and tightening his fingers in emphasis. In his mind, he heard the echo of these bones breaking like twigs; Sylar wasn't the only killer in this room. “Hey! People like him make me want to rip their hearts out!”

“Except you don't dream of blood and screaming when you think of him, you don't dream of tearing him limb from limb in the slowest way possible --”

Right this moment, feeling the shudders his friend was trying to suppress at the memories of both things done to him and things he wanted to do in return, that statement could be argued.

“But you _didn't_. You didn't, and in the end that's all that counts.”

The temptation of giving in, like any addiction, would probably always be there. It was part of Sylar's original ability. Peter knew; he had experienced it first hand. But he also knew that Sylar – _Gabriel_ was able to overcome it if he really tried, if he had something to fight for, and Peter was determined to give him just that. His mother had been on the right track, once, to keeping the beast contained, but her manipulations had been a house of cards based on a lie; it was bound to collapse in on itself once the lie had been discovered. Peter, on the other hand, had been given the unexpected (and at the time _unwanted_ ) opportunity to built something real.

The shudders beneath his fingers grew stronger, transforming into all out shakes, and Peter shifted his hold on his friend to draw him closer, bringing the dark head to rest against his shoulder. Gabriel went willingly enough, delayed reaction making him more pliable than he usually allowed himself to be.

In Peter's arms he was all long limbs and lean muscles, and it really wasn't appropriate to be thinking of doing anything but trying to comfort, but Peter couldn't stop some fleeting images from entering his mind unexpectedly. Pushing them aside, he laid his cheek against soft hair and held on, mumbling reassurances and nonsense alike. Gabriel didn't have to understand him, probably wouldn't actually, but he needed to know he wasn't alone.

“It's okay,” he told him, over and over. “Hush. It's okay.”

It wasn't; not yet. But it was going to be. If Gabriel was good at one thing it was how to survive. They stayed like that for a long time before Gabriel let himself be put to bed.

oOo

It was almost one a.m. and his insistent – and loud – knocking had already triggered several disgruntled neighbors into shouting for silence, but for once Peter didn't care. If he had to wake the whole house just to raise the one single tenant he actually wanted to talk to, he would.

When the door finally swung open to reveal the Paul Walker knock-off glaring down at him, it almost caught Peter by surprise. Almost. His raised hand, already in the motion for another knock, instead landed flat on a broad chest and pushed.

“We need to talk,” he growled before the other man had even a chance to speak.

Using the man's momentary dumbfoundedness to his advantage, Peter remorselessly bullied his way inside Stephen's apartment. A familiar black coat draped across an armchair caught his eye.

It didn't take long for the large man to gather his wits, however.

“What the hell do you think you're doing, man?”

The quiet fury was more menacing than any shout would have been, not that Peter was impressed. He had faced down worse men than this one armed with nothing more than determination and righteousness. The borrowed telekinesis itched beneath his skin, tingled in his fingertips, anticipating to be released, but he held back – for now.

“You may not remember, but I'm --” he began only to be rudely interrupted.

“I know who you are,” Stephen corrected, closing the door behind him.

Peter cursed himself for ever encouraging Gabriel to have any kind of relationship with the man.

“Then you know why I'm here,” he stated, controlled despite the anger burning in his veins. “You hurt my friend.”

“Did he say that?”

The guy actually had the nerve to look amused, condescending in a way that raised Peter's hackles more surely than even Sylar's arrogant aloofness had ever managed. Or maybe that was just his emotions playing havoc with his memories.

“Look, man, I hate to tell you this, but your friend is a little unstable. I mean, if I really hurt him, you'd think I'd left some evidence, wouldn't you?”

Bile rose in Peter's throat at those words. It hadn't even occurred to him that Stephen had found out about the healing ability, relied on it to cover his tracks. People like Gabriel, like Claire, (like Peter, sometimes) had to be the most perfect victims for men like him. Angry red wanted to cloud his vision, but he forced it down. He had spent enough time with Sylar, both fighting and talking, for some of his tricks to rub off on Peter, and he needed to keep his head straight to pull this off successfully.

Forcing out a dark chuckle, not breaking eye contact, he replied, “You're right, he is unstable. But just because you're incapable of leaving any marks does not make you any less guilty.”

Surprise flitted over the handsome features before him, a scowl, and Peter didn't have to force the laugh this time. “What? You thought I didn't know about him?”

The cracks in Stephen's veneer of congeniality grew wider, revealing the ugliness underneath. “You think I mistreated him?” he sneered. “Prove it!”

“And if I wanted to bring you up on charges, that would be a problem,” Peter allowed. Considering their circumstances, however, bringing up charges wasn't even an option, and Peter himself had every proof he needed. “I'm just here to give you a friendly warning.” He stabbed his index finger repeatedly, painfully into the muscled chest in front of him. “Stay away from him! You don't touch him again, or I swear to God I will make your life a living hell!”

It was Stephen who laughed this time, loud and repulsive. “And how exactly do you plan to do that, little man?” Bristling at the moniker, Peter let the man loom menacingly over him for a moment. “Because from where I'm standing, --”

Peter grabbed the hand coming for his throat, using it as lever in a move Nathan had taught him when he had been a scrawny teenager, and barely a second later he had Stephen pushed face first against the wall next to the door, the offending limb twisted painfully behind his back.

“People like you make me sick!” he hissed, unable to not imagine what might have happened in this apartment. Gabriel, tall but skinny, forbidden to use his powers and utterly useless in a fight without them, pitted against this mountain of muscles and maliciousness. Tightening his grip on Stephen's hand, Peter pushed the arm further up his back, reinforcing his hold on the man with the telekinesis as he had witnessed Sylar do so often, and mocked, “So what does it feel like to be held down by someone stronger than you?”

The yelp of pain he received in response was darkly satisfying. “Do you feel helpless? Are you afraid?”

“Go to hell!”

“Been there. Done that.” He nuzzled his nose against the strong back of Stephen's neck just above the neckline of his t-shirt, unable to reach his ear as he'd have preferred. Using intimacy to intimidate, he whispered, “Now it's your turn!”

“You're one of those freaks, too, aren't you?” the other man grunted, uselessly struggling against a hold that wouldn't be broken. “The press will have a field day with this!”

Which was precisely the reason Peter had tempered the urge to use the ability as destructively as his fury demanded.

“With what exactly?” He chuckled darkly. “That I got the better of you? You think anyone would believe I overpowered you?” And, throwing Stephen's words back at him with vindictive glee, “You'd have to prove it!”

“What do you want?”

“I already told you. You know, my family has quite a bit of influence, and if you don't leave him alone, believe me, I will make use of each and every one of my connections to run your life into the ground! And don't even think of doing what you did to him to anyone else! Do we understand each other?”

Peter felt Stephen's muscles clench against him in a futile attempt to thrash him off, shaking with the effort, but he had the man effectively neutered. The feeling of power was definitely a rush to the head; was this how Stephen had felt when he'd forced Gabriel to submit? Was this how Sylar had felt back when he had still embraced the darkness inside him?

Sudden nausea rushed through Peter, but he didn't back down. That would undermine the whole reason for this little exercise. “I said, 'Do we understand each other?'” he demanded again.

This time, he got a hateful “Yes!” in response.

“Don't forget! Or you will regret it!”

Disgustedly pushing himself away from the body in front of him, Peter summoned Gabriel's coat into his hand and headed for the door. Without turning around again, he raised his arm as if to wave goodbye and flicked his fingers. The light bulb above exploded into thousands of tiny shards, plunging the room into darkness just as Peter crossed the threshold.

Just to prove how very serious he was about that warning.

oOo

Several hours later, Peter lay in his bed, curled on his side with his head propped up on an elbow and watched Gabriel sleep next to him in the washed out, dim illumination cast from the street lights outside. Even while awake Gabriel had a way of looking innocent, childlike despite all the atrocities he had committed. Asleep, Peter could almost believe he looked like the angel he was named after.

Part of him, the part that couldn't let go of the past, the part most people he knew would agree with, couldn't help but comment _'Just desserts!'_ whenever he thought about what had been done to the man before him. Most of Peter, however, only hurt for him. No one deserved being violated like this, and just because _Sylar_ had been the victim this time didn't make Stephen's actions any less horrifying, didn't make them right or even righteous.

The angry thought unearthed an almost forgotten memory. With it came shame and remorse, but also a bit of the dark satisfaction he had felt earlier this morning with Stephen pinned helplessly to the wall. There had been a time – and for everyone but the two men inside this room it had been only a few short months ago – when Peter had quite literally nailed Sylar to the floor. Willing to torture, willing to kill to get what he wanted...

Over a decade of distance allowed Peter a clearer view on his own actions.

No. Two wrongs didn't make a right. Torturing Sylar for killing a loved one might have made him feel better for a short while, but in the end it just showed that they weren't as different as all that. The world wasn't as black and white a place as he had once wanted to believe, as his niece still had the liberty of youth to believe. They all had their dark sides, every last one of them, whether they chose to acknowledge them or not. And not one of them had the moral high ground to judge anymore.

“It doesn't always have to hurt, you know?” Peter murmured absentmindedly, still contemplating the man before him, the monster he had become, the human being he now struggled to be.

“Human contact, I mean.” Because, as Peter had realized some time during the years that never were, that's all Gabriel knew it to be. The few times he had taken the chance to invest in a relationship, it had come back to bite him. Stephen was just the latest example in a string of people who didn't want him for who he was but for what he could do for them.

Elle, possibly, had been the exception to that rule, but then Elle had been as damaged in her own way as Gabriel still was. It wasn't an excuse for all he had done, far from it, but it certainly explained some of his behaviors.

Peter just hoped the rapport he had so painstakingly built with this enemy-come-friend was reason enough for Gabriel to not lose his trust in him in the aftermath of Stephen's assaults – and humanity by proxy.

“Because our history is such a stellar example to prove your point.”

The snarky comment should have startled him, but Peter just smiled down at his friend as Gabriel's eyes blinked open.

“You think too loud,” his sleepy voice accused Peter.

Seemingly of its own accord, Peter's hand reached out to cup Gabriel's cheek, fingertips brushing through soft hair, stubble rough against his palm, thumb gently smoothing away the sudden frown lines.

“Sorry,” he apologized, amusement painting wrinkles into his own skin. “It is, though,” he insisted, and catching a doubtful gaze he explained, “Gabriel, we've already seen each other's worst. Hell, most of the time, you were the one to bring it out of me! We tortured each other, we killed each other several times over, and we're still here.”

When Peter leaned down for a kiss, it should have come as a surprise to them both. In truth, it felt as if they had been holding their breaths for this to happen for a while now. It was chaste kiss, just a brush of lips really, the lips beneath his warm and pliant. It felt like a beginning. It felt like finally coming home.

“We're _still_ here.”

~ The End


End file.
